


some primal, wild way

by wordsmithie



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, harry i want cisco ramon all for myself wells, harry i want to eat cisco ramon wells, harry is possessive and greedy and he has no shame about it, homophobia does not exist in this victorian london, i just really wanted to write a victorian vampire au, so have some harrisco in victorian london
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22014757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsmithie/pseuds/wordsmithie
Summary: The first time Cisco notices the stranger they’re both reaching for the same book. Their hands brush – his is startlingly cold that it makes Cisco gasp – and they pause, sizing each other up.
Relationships: Cisco Ramon/Earth-2 Harrison "Harry" Wells
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65
Collections: Harrisco New Year's Kisses: An Anthology





	1. Chapter 1

_God I want you_   
_in some primal, wild way_   
_animals want each other._   
_Untamed and full of teeth._   
  
_God I want you,_   
_in some chaste, Victorian way._   
_A glimpse of your ankle_   
_just kills me._

— Clementine von Radics, “Want”

* * *

The first time Cisco notices the stranger they’re both reaching for the same book. Their hands brush – his is startlingly cold that it makes Cisco gasp – and they pause, sizing each other up.

The stranger’s eyes are flat behind his spectacles as he regards Cisco. “What would a boy like yourself want with the _Principia_?” His voice is low, laced with the hint of a rough growl that makes Cisco’s skin prickle with irritation.

“I’m not a _boy_ ,” he grits out, as the ghost of a smirk passes over the man’s face. “And I need it for research.”

“I need it for teaching. I win.” And with that, he grabs the book off the shelf and walks off, leaving Cisco gaping in indignation.

Except later, when Cisco abandons his notes to browse the shelves again and makes his way back to his spot, it’s to see the book sitting at his carrel, waiting patiently next to his haphazard notes.

* * *

The next time Cisco is at the library he can’t help his eyes from roving the aisles between the shelves. He tells himself that he is not looking to catch a glance of the stranger in the dark clothes.

He wonders what the stranger teaches. Perhaps he is a visiting professor. Then he wonders why he cares.

Cisco buries himself once more in his notes. He had stayed later than he planned to last time and that had unleashed his mother’s torrent of worry for what he did, which as always, inevitably led to lamenting his chosen career.

“You must promise not to work there after dark. The paths are not nearly as well-lit as they ought to be, what with all the recent disappearances.”

He had mumbled his apologies as he divested himself of his coat and hat, hoping that his mother would finish there before getting started on what was truly her topic of passion. But, of course, there was no use hoping.

“I really wish you wouldn’t insist on doing this. Why can’t you follow in your brother’s footsteps and take up the family business? You would be well established already.”

And once his mother started in that vein there was really nothing he could say.

Cisco is not going to let that happen again today. He keeps a close eye on his pocket watch and makes sure he is on his way home well before dark.

* * *

Each day’s newspaper brings with it some grisly update about yet another attack or some other inexplicable disappearance. People vanish left and right, and the city alleyways trickle with blood. The tension in the city is almost as thick as the smog, and the city-dwellers look askance at each other, their hard-won, jaded suspicious natures reaching to new heights.

It makes it even harder for a young Puerto-Rican man such as Cisco. He has fought his parents to let him pursue academia, he has fought for the scholarship at the university, and he has fought the doubtful glances from his peers and professors. Still fights them. And now it seems he will have to fight their suspicion too. Because after all a brown boy cannot just be interested in the pursuit of knowledge. He must want to smear his fists with blood, revel in the disappearances of complete strangers. He pretends he cannot hear the whispers, and he acts like he is not aware of the rumours floating around. But if there is one thing that Cisco knows about himself it is that he has never been good at playing pretend.

* * *

It is partially why he holes away in the library for such long periods of time. In the library, everyone’s head is down. Their eyes are not directed at him, cutting him with suspicion and distrust.

He likes to travel to the topmost floors, to the least traversed aisles, to the shelves with the most dust on them. He runs his fingers along the books, peers at obscure titles on the history of Thai origami or treatises on music from the East Indies.

He spies a green book sitting on the higher shelves, its blank spine spiking his curiosity. He struggles to reach it standing on the tip of his toes and is just about to go off and find a step-stool when he feels himself enveloped by warmth. Whoever it is, is standing far too close, the open lapels of their jacket brushing the top of Cisco’s arms. A long arm reaches up, but instead of reaching for the book the fingers settle on the shelf’s edge. The other arm does the same and Cisco realizes belatedly that he is trapped. He cannot will his limbs into movement.

Cisco’s ear prickles and he can feel the man’s lips a hair’s breadth from it as he whispers, “You should learn to ask for help.” Cisco shivers, which seems to amuse the man because he chuckles. “Sensitive little thing, are you?” he murmurs against Cisco’s neck, which does little to stop the shivering. The man nuzzles his nose up Cisco’s neck, humming deeply in his throat. Cisco is surprised to find that the sound makes his stomach flip in nervous appreciation.

He starts when he feels a tongue lick at the nape of his neck.

“It’s alright,” the man says, though the assurance is slightly undermined by his huff of laughter. “I’ll be careful with you.”

And then the man’s lips are on Cisco’s neck and Cisco is certain that he has stopped breathing. He is caught by surprise. Cisco tells himself that this is the reason why his knees feel slightly weak, why he feels himself sink into the man’s chest. The man only hums his appreciation, his left arm coming to snake around Cisco, supporting him, pulling him even closer so that there is no gap between them.

Cisco is lost. Inexplicable sensations are rippling out from his neck, the man’s heat and coat swarm his senses. It is as if he is drowning, as if he will be swallowed up by the black of the man’s coat, never to be seen again.

Cisco moans, long and slow, and it is only when his eyes flicker and he catches a glimpse of the day’s sun filtering through the library windows, a bright and cheery reminder that the world at large is still in existence that he sputters with shame and clamps a hand over his mouth.

It is immediately pulled away.

“No,” the man purrs with raspy amusement. “I want to hear you.”

And then he is whipped around, back against the shelves, still trapped, still breathless, and staring into the stranger’s eyes. They’re piercing, even behind his spectacles.

There is a sense of quiet satisfaction in Cisco’s gut.

“I knew it was you.” Cisco feels triumphant, but his voice comes out as a croak.

The man’s lips crook up in a half-smile. “I would have been disappointed if you didn’t,” he murmurs, his eyes running over Cisco’s face. 

Before Cisco can say another word the man’s lips are on his, and it takes Cisco’s mind a second to grapple with the reality, but when it does, it doesn’t take long for his body which was immediately paralysed to suddenly turn weak and melt against the man’s.

Each swipe of the man’s tongue, each tug of his teeth, each suck and pull seems to bring up something from deep within Cisco. It leaves him heady, desperate, and writhing. And it is when he feels the man’s heat and hardness against his stomach that Cisco realizes with a start that the man might be aching as painfully as Cisco is.

The man pulls away with a suddenness that leaves Cisco reeling. It takes him a beat to refocus on the moment, to see that the man is panting heavily, his eyes pinning Cisco with a hard stare. And then he pushes himself away from the shelf, from Cisco, and turns, before pausing as if he’s suddenly remembered something, and turns back. He reaches up, grabs a book – the green book with the blank spine that had caught Cisco’s eyes - and pushes it against Cisco’s stomach before turning on his heel and walking away without another glance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, this chapter basically got away from me. Enjoy!

He cannot quite reconcile his reality with what just happened. It does not feel as if it is his fingers – shaking, as they are – that are collecting his notes and stowing them away in his satchel. It does not feel as if he is still inhabiting his body.

His mind is far away somewhere, and it takes him a few seconds to realise that someone is calling to him.

Several someones.

He turns to see a group of young men in tweed jackets and flat caps making their way towards him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” one of them demands. Cisco supposes this is the leader. He seems the most obnoxious.

“I’m...making my way home?”

“Don’t get smart with me, you filthy Mexican.”

Cisco realizes that he recognises the leader. His name is Sanderson, nephew to the university dean.

“Well, someone has to be smart around here. You are clearly not vying for the position.”

In a second Sanderson’s fingers are fisted around the collars of Cisco’s shirt. “Who do you think you are? Coming to our country, walking around this school like you own the place, attacking people in the middle of the night.”

“What are you - ”

He does not get to finish his question. A fist comes out of nowhere and collides with the side of his face. The force of it blurs his vision, but there is no time to reel himself back because something hits him in the stomach and he’s down.

There are four or five of them, and it would be foolish to fight back. But he tries anyway. He feels he ought to, but soon oblivion takes him and he lets it.

* * *

His mother is shaken, his father sombre and silent. He tries to play it off. He says it was a couple of tramps trying to rough him up for some money. But he knows that they can tell. It was never going to be easy, a Puerto Rican at a prestigious British university.

He lets them fuss, lets them berate him, lets them call for a physician. He feels he owes them that much.

* * *

He has been ordered to stay in bed for at least a week. His ribs are bruised, the physician tells him. Thank the Lord they are not broken, the physician tells him. Cisco wants to ask if the physician has ever had a bruised rib. He wants to ask him if he has ever been attacked when walking home. Instead, he simply grits his teeth.

* * *

Christmas is the same as it always is. The house is festooned in garlands of holly. There are twice the number of candles as there usually are, and everyone requests the same three Christmas carols for Dante to play on the piano.

As a general rule, Cisco loves the yuletide festivities but there is something this year that makes him feel restless and fitful. He can’t seem to sit still. He flickers through the pages of his notes, flits between the rooms, engages half-heartedly in conversations he has no interest in.

To alleviate his boredom, he decides to look at the book that the strange man got for him in the library. Upon perusing it he discovers that the cover and pages are as blank as the spine.

* * *

The newspapers announce that the dean of the university is searching for his nephew. He has been missing for three days and there has been no trace. Roy Sanderson and six of his peers, all jewels in the university’s crown, have vanished into thin air.

They are not presumed dead yet, not officially, not when one of them is nephew to the university dean. They will expend all their funds and resources into trying to prove false what everyone already knows to be true: that the boys are just the next in the long line of unexplained deaths that is plaguing the city.

* * *

The bruises disappear but the scars remain. It does not take long for things to feel normal again. He goes back to his proofs and keeps his head down once more. He manages to secure a place on the Dean’s List, but when he sees the letter inviting him to the Dean’s Dinner he balls it up in his fist.

His father chides him, straightens out the crumpled paper. “Who you know is as important as what you know,” he says, holding the wrinkled letter out to Cisco.

Cisco takes it wordlessly.

* * *

Everyone mills around in the hall, rubbing shoulders, making small talk, trying to expand the list of who they know.

Cisco hovers at the edge holding a glass of wine in his hand, wishing that he was at home, and feeling guilty for not making more of an effort.

He half-smiles at strangers whose eyes glide easily off him and tries not to tug too often at his collar which seems to be doing its best to deprive him of air.

When his bored drinking has drained his glass once more, he braves the crowds again, making for the punch bowl. He’s almost there when he hears his physics professor call out.

“Ah, Francisco! You must come and meet our guest.” Professor Stein’s boom is hard to pretend not to hear.

Cisco turns warily. Crowds have never been his favourite, but he finds the smaller gatherings where he’s forced to make small talk and pay attention to other’s small talk in turn much worse.

Black-suited, grey-haired men turn to appraise Cisco from the bottoms of his half-polished shoes to the top of his hopefully still smooth hair. They all wear expressions of vague disinterest.

All except for one, and he is most certainly not grey-haired.

Cisco is certain that he jumps when he sees the man from the library, but no one else seems to notice. Except, perhaps, for the man himself whose quirk of a smile becomes more pronounced as he continues to stare at Cisco.

“This is Harrison Wells,” Professor Stein continues, cheerfully unaware of Cisco’s sudden surprise. “He has graciously agreed to take over Mr. Thawne’s mathematics lectures while Mr. Thawne is on his sabbatical. We are lucky to have him.”

Cisco can’t fight the determined flush of heat that rushes up his face. He musters what he hopes is a polite smile and holds out his hand to the stranger. Though, Cisco supposes, now that they have officially met, the man is a stranger no longer.

“Harrison,” Professor Stein continues, as Harrison Wells envelopes Cisco’s hand in his large, cool one, “this is Francisco Ramon. One of our brightest students. It has been a pure pleasure to be able to mentor his studies.” He beams proudly at Cisco, and Cisco feels a different kind of flush creeping up his neck now.

“I think you’re embarrassing your prodigy, Stein,” Harrison Wells murmurs, his keen eyes never leaving Cisco’s face. He hasn’t let go of Cisco’s hand yet, and he squeezes it now, his thumb lightly stroking the back of Cisco’s palm.

“Excuse me!” Cisco tries to keep the alarm out of his voice. “It is certainly nice to meet you Mr. Wells,” he continues, flustered. “But, please, excuse me.” He flashes Professor Stein an apologetic glance and flees.

He escapes through the French doors that are flung open at the other end of the hall, relieved for the cool, still air of the night that counters the flames that seem to be licking his face.

The sound of the mingling crowd spills outside, though it is muffled by the pressing night and Cisco is glad for it. He needs to clear his head.

He moves to the side, seeking the sheltered corner where the balcony joins with the side of the house, a profusion of flowering dogwood branches offering some much needed privacy.

But his relief is short-lived, because the appearance of a long-legged shadow in the light pouring from the hall heralds another presence.

“Cat got your tongue back there, did it?”

It’s him. Harrison Wells. He seems to blend into the darkness of the night, except for the glint of his glasses which flash at Cisco in the darkness.

“You were much more vocal the last time we interacted.” The words are tinged with a knowing smile.

“You’re a teacher!” The words burst out of Cisco.

“Yes.” He sees Harrison Wells lift the glass of wine to his lips, the light gleaming off the glass making a slow, gleaming arc against the dark shadows as he does. “I believe we’ve established that already.”

“You’re a teacher _here_! At this university! And we – you – I – ” Cisco is not quite certain how to verbalise his worry.

“As much as you spluttering is rather - ” Harrison Wells swills his wine glass contemplatively, looking at Cisco with a bored, sleepy looking expression, his mouth tilted in a half-smile - “endearing, it would be good to know what it is you would like to say.”

“I can’t believe –” Cisco exclaims loudly, and then pulls back before lowering his voice to a whisper again. “I can’t believe we – we did what we did in the library.” If he’d thought his face couldn’t get any warmer he had been mistaken.

“And what did we do exactly?” Harrison Wells says, his gaze steady on Cisco as he takes a step closer.

Cisco grits his teeth as he moves back coming up against the cool stone wall behind him. He wants to look away but he doesn’t. “You know very well what I mean.”

The man lifts a shoulder in a shrug and tips his head back to take another sip of his drink. “It was perfectly harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“We’re two adults who were getting to know each other.” In the light-dappled shadows, Cisco can see a small smile playing across Harrison Wells’ lips.

He looms closer and bends his head towards Cisco. The glittering sconce above Cisco’s head washes light over Harrison Wells’ face, showing Cisco’s reflection in the man’s spectacles. Behind the gleaming glass the man’s hard, blue eyes are riveted on Cisco.

“You should be relieved that I didn’t get to know you better right then and there.” 

Cisco tries to swallow, but his mouth and throat are dry. The tickling makes him cough instead.

Harrison Wells chuckles. “Ah, yes. I should take care not to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Despite his embarrassment, Cisco can’t help but narrow his eyes up at the man. The tone, so supercilious, so knowing, makes Cisco want to challenge the man. Or it makes him want to prove the man wrong. Perhaps both.

Which is why when Harrison Wells presses a palm to the wall behind Cisco’s head and leans close Cisco fights the instinct to pull back. Not that there is much space between Cisco and the stone wall behind him. 

“Who are you?” The question spills out of Cisco without his realising it. 

“You heard Stein,” the man murmurs, his eyes on Cisco’s mouth. “I am Harrison Wells.” And then he dips his head and covers Cisco’s lips with his own. 

This kiss is a lot less urgent than the last one. It is indulgent and leisurely, as if Harrison Wells is confident that he has all the time he needs to do all that he wants. The slow, sensual sweep of his tongue, and the proprietary way he nibbles at Cisco’s lips speak to a different kind of confidence – a confidence that suggests he is certain he is providing Cisco with as much pleasure as he is taking from him.

The man’s arrogance is staggering, Cisco thinks even as he sighs and tips his head back, mouth opening wider to accommodate the man’s persistent tongue.

Harrison Wells laughs into Cisco’s lips. “The sounds you make,” he rasps, his open-mouthed kisses swallowing more of Cisco’s sighs, “they would put the ambrosia of the gods to shame.”

Cisco can only make more incomprehensible sounds in reply as the man’s teeth scrape at Cisco’s throat. His own hands, Cisco realises, have reached up of their own volition to cling to bunches of the man’s jacket at his back. He can feel the silken fabric heat up under his palms.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Cisco mumbles against the man’s lips. 

He is vaguely aware of the man stretching out his left hand to deposit his wine glass on the stone balustrade next to them. 

“And which question is that?” He moves to cage Cisco with his arms, pressing even closer, his mouth finding the base of Cisco’s throat. As there is really only wall behind Cisco, he feels the reasonable solution is for him to lean into the man, which he promptly does.

“Who you are?” Cisco says wonderingly, as the man’s lips work at his throat. The wicked swipes and licks of the man’s tongue make Cisco’s face flame. He is glad for the darkness that hides his embarrassment. 

Their chests press together, and there is a low, almost purr-like growl from Harrison Wells. 

“I already told you,” he says, ceasing his ravaging of Cisco’s throat. “You need -” he licks at Cisco’s jaw - “to pay” - he nips at Cisco’s chin - “attention” - he nuzzles Cisco’s cheek - “ _Francisco_.” He whispers Cisco’s name into his ear as if it is an obscene secret, punctuating it with a slow lick up the curve of Cisco’s ear. 

Cisco trembles, which elicits a hungry grin from the man. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” Harrison Wells murmurs lazily, as his hand moves to caress Cisco’s waist underneath his dinner jacket, fingers brushing over the waistcoat’s cloth ties and buttons. One of his thighs pushes between Cisco’s legs, and the painful friction of it makes Cisco bite back a moan. 

What _do_ I mean, Cisco wonders through the pleasure-addled haze in his head. He supposes it is this. This maddening pull that the man has on him, the way he is able to melt Cisco with a brush of his hands, the way the man, too, is clearly pulled to Cisco for some inexplicable reason. 

“What is this concoction you’re wearing?” the man murmurs against the corner of Cisco’s mouth, breaking his thoughts. 

“I…” Cisco breathes, “It’s…” He has no idea what he wants to say, and it doesn’t appear as if Harrison Wells is particularly interested in an answer. His fingers tug once more and the waistcoat falls open under Cisco’s jacket, and then the only barrier left between Harrison Wells’ hands and Cisco is a humble linen shirt. When he grabs Cisco’s waist, firmly, his long fingers curving possessively, Cisco flinches. The movement jostles their lips against each other’s.

“You’re cold,” Cisco gasps.

“Mm,” Harrison Wells murmurs, and he bites hard at Cisco’s lip. It makes him gasp again, this time in hurt surprise, and he pulls back. 

The man simply follows, his lips closing in on Cisco’s once more, before he licks slowly over the bite. “I’m sorry, darling,” he says, and though his low voice drips with concern, Cisco thinks he isn’t the least bit sorry. He takes Cisco’s bottom lip between his own and sucks at it, humming in his low raspy tone, and for such an extended length of time that Cisco’s flush grows more pronounced all the while. 

“There,” he says, pulling back to stare at Cisco with remorseless, glittering eyes. “All better?”

Cisco can only stare. There is something in the man’s gaze that makes Cisco feel like he is caught in a trap. And he is not entirely sure that he wants to escape.

“I don’t think you are sorry.”

Harrison Wells laughs quietly, rubbing his thumb along Cisco’s bottom lip. The roughness of it makes something jolt in Cisco’s stomach. “Would you believe me if I said I was a little sorry?”

“No,” Cisco murmurs, and the rest of Harrison Wells’ laughter is lost between Cisco’s lips. His fingers, inquisitive and clever, have undone almost half of Cisco’s shirt buttons, something which Cisco only realises when the cool digits slip underneath the fabric, spreading out and up.

“Wait,” Cisco mumbles against the man’s lips.

“Mm hmm,” the man hums reassuringly, his fingers kneading into Cisco’s skin now. One hand inches around to Cisco’s back while the other crawls up, the tips brushing over Cisco’s nipple.

“Wait!” Cisco gasps, tugging the man’s hand out from underneath his shirt. The man lets him, but only to then take Cisco’s hand in his and press it up against the wall as he deepens the kiss. He seems to want to know Cisco entirely by tongue.

Cisco is trapped between the pressing hand at his back and the relentless kisses spilling from the man’s lips. It is the kind of entrapment that one could relish, Cisco thinks, the man’s trailing fingers on his spine making him moan.

The man growls, deep and dark, and his hands drop to Cisco’s waist again, skimming the lining of the breeches, before plucking at it in a determined fashion. 

“No,” Cisco croaks, his hand dropping to take the man’s. “Not there. Not now.” He holds onto the man’s fingers, too long in his hand, and too cold despite everything they’ve done. The man’s other hand is still at Cisco’s hip and Cisco whispers, “Please.”

Harrison Wells pulls back to look at him with steady, dark eyes. Cisco is sure that he is going to try and persuade him otherwise. And if he does, Cisco knows that he will be persuaded. 

After another second, Harrison Wells blinks. “As you wish. Not now.” He tilts his head forward, the gesture hinting a promise of _later_. 

Cisco gulps, his throat choked with relief, even while something flutters in his chest at the man’s implication. 

“Thank you.” 

“ _Don’t_ thank me,” the man growls, before swooping in for a vicious kiss. Harrison Wells’ kisses are like a spell, Cisco thinks. They send Cisco spiraling into a tangled, thrilling high of pleasure and confusion. His long fingers are hard against Cisco’s hips as he presses himself closer, and Cisco can feel the hardness of him against his torso. 

The man moans, and the sound is intoxicating to Cisco. He wants to hear it again, and for a moment he is lost, quietly bereft at the fact that he can’t bottle it up, before realising that there is a far more straightforward solution. He clasps his hand around the man’s neck and moves up against him. 

This seems to have a devastating effect on Harrison Wells. He groans long and low, curling over Cisco, forced to pause in his wicked ministrations to hold onto Cisco and the wall behind him. Cisco can feel the hot puffs of breath against his neck. 

He is wildly proud of the reaction he has elicited. Absurdly, he wants to do it again, and he does, this time using the movement to reach up and place a kiss on the man’s chin. 

The man grunts and thumps the wall behind Cisco’s head. That had to have hurt, Cisco thinks with a wince.

“Damn.” The man huffs, and then inhales slowly. A bitter laugh escapes him and Cisco stares with a frown, worried. 

“Did I do something wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” He turns to look up at Harrison Wells’ hand.

“ _Don’t_ -” the man says again, with such ferocious need that Cisco immediately twists back to face him. 

Harrison Wells groans again, his forehead dropping to rest on Cisco’s shoulder. He turns his head to laugh darkly into the crook of Cisco’s neck. 

“You… you with your ridiculous...sweet kisses, and... damnable writhing.” 

Cisco shifts, awkwardness and embarrassment engulfing him. “I’m sorr-”

The man’s fingers dig into Cisco’s waist. “Be. Still.” The words are a forceful hiss. “Unless you _want_ me to have you now. And I would,” he threatens, his words scalding Cisco’s neck, “university guests be damned.” 

“Oh,” says Cisco, and stills in understanding. The awkward embarrassment evaporates as he is, ridiculously, inexplicably, suffused with a feeling of lightness.

“' _Oh_ ’ is right,” the man says, his tone dry as he finally straightens. His eyes are surprisingly calm and flat, considering how he’d been bent over Cisco a moment before. 

Cisco blinks up at him. 

The man’s eyes flit over Cisco’s face and down to his shirt. 

“I suggest you tidy yourself up before going back inside,” he says in a high-handed manner as if he hadn’t been the sole perpetrator of Cisco’s dishabille. 

Cisco huffs in mild outrage making the man laugh. 

“I would try and help,” Harrison Wells says, his eyes a shade softer, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to help myself from doing the exact opposite.”

And despite everything that has just happened, the words still manage to make Cisco’s cheeks flush with a vengeance. 

The man laughs quietly, and pushes off the wall. He lifts his hands to push back his hair, smooth his shirt, and straighten his jacket, while Cisco tries to focus on doing up his buttons with jelly-like fingers. The fact that Harrison Wells just stands there, quietly watching does little to help calm his nerves. Finally, after fumbling with his waistcoat tie several times, Cisco manages to tie the knot and straightens. 

The man’s eyes are a dark stormy blue behind his glasses. He watches Cisco wordlessly for a beat or two before he turns to pluck his wine glass off the top of the balcony.

“Goodnight Francisco Ramon.” He tips his glass in Cisco’s direction. “And promise me you’ll be careful out in the city streets.”

Cisco’s face shifts with surprise. “I - yes.” He frowns, puzzled. “I promise.”

The man’s gaze seems to caress Cisco. He lifts a hand, two fingers trailing down the side of Cisco’s cheek, before he taps them against Cisco’s chin with a small laugh. 

And then he turns on his feet to disappear back into the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's probably the steamiest I've ever gone. So I'm just gonna...go. K bye.


	3. Chapter 3

When Cisco arrives home, mind slightly dazed and lips considerably bruised, it is to see the lights still on which gives him pause.

Inside his parents are up and bustling about.

“Oh, Cisco!” His mother falls on him, taking his hat and scarf. “How could you stay away so late on a night like this?”

Cisco does not bother to tell her that he is not a practicing clairvoyant. “What’s the matter?”

“Dante was attacked!” his mother proclaims tearfully, clutching at Cisco’s hands.

The words make Cisco’s heart plummet. “Is he –”

“He is wounded, but he is still able to sit up. He is – oh!” The woman can no longer go on and Cisco helps her to a chair as she waves him away. “Go – go – go to your brother.”

Despite his mother’s words Cisco is still frightened of what he will see. His mind reels with thoughts of Dante being bed-ridden for months to come, lost limbs, or worse. But when he reaches Dante’s room he can see that his brother is indeed sitting up, and even brushing their father away, telling him to sit down. He is holding a folded towel to his cheek.

“Dante,” Cisco croaks. “What happened?”

Dante looks up. “Some hoodlum attacked me on my way home. It is nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” their father exclaims outrageously. “They took a piece of your face off!”

“It was hardly that,” Dante scoffs, rolling his eyes at Cisco over their father’s head.

“And what if they had kidnapped you?” their father continues to bluster.

“Kidnap me? Don’t you think you’re overreacting, Papá?”

“Me? Overreacting? Tell him,” their father says turning to Cisco, before turning back to Dante without waiting for a reply. “How can you say that when people are vanishing all over the city?”

“It’s not all over the city,” Dante grumbles, looking down and picking at the blanket. It’s clear that their father is unwilling to be talked down from this. 

“Papá,” Cisco cuts in. “Why don’t you go see if Mamá requires anything? I think she might need a cup of tea. I’ll keep watch over Dante.”

The old man hesitates, blinking at the two of them doubtfully over his spectacles. 

“She looked rather shaken up,” Cisco says, with an insistent tilt of his head. 

Their father leaves, muttering under his breath, and Cisco turns to his brother. 

“I know they fuss, but they’re not wrong, you know. There have been unaccountable disappearances lately.” Cisco’s mind flashes back to the balcony, and the glint of Harrison Wells’ glasses as he’d urged Cisco to be careful. 

“Don’t you start as well,” Dante cuts in, lying back on his pillows. 

“I’m just saying - it wouldn’t hurt to be careful.” 

“It was no murderer, or - or - Jack the Ripper. It was just a white boy who was angry that I was Puerto Rican,” Dante mutters. 

Cisco slumps into the chair at Dante’s bedside and exhales, long and loud. “Oh yes, I know about those.” 

“I worry about you, you know.”

Cisco looks up to see Dante watching him quietly. 

“Walking all that distance to the university. And always alone.”

Cisco shakes his head, not quite able to say anything through the surprising tightness in his throat. “I’ll be fine. It’s not so bad.” 

“Just watch your back for me. There are no guardian angels for us.” 

Cisco gives a single nod, sitting quietly in the dark as his brother’s breathing settles into a somnolent rhythm. 

* * *

Not satisfied with the physician’s assessment, their father and mother decide to cart Dante off to the country to visit a family friend who is also a medical specialist. His practicing days are over, but he still makes time for those in his inner circles, and it’s something that their father is willing to take advantage of. 

“I’m not risking the spread of some unnoticed infection, I’m not!” he says vehemently shaking his head when Dante objects. 

Dante quickly cottons on to what Cisco had already resigned himself to - that it is better to just along with what their parents want. 

They have agreed to Cisco’s request that he stay behind. Cisco still has a mountain of work that he needs to catch up on. Furthermore, he knows he will just be an extra person along for the ride if he chooses to go. There isn’t much that he can do for Dante. There isn’t much that Dante needs really, which he and his brother know, and which their parents refuse to accept. 

In any case, he’ll be glad for the quiet. It will mean ringing in the new year on his own, but it doesn’t seem such a bad thing, he thinks, as he watches his family carriage trundle away. Solitude had been incidental, but now it is comfortable. 

The library is closed over the winter break, but the house is so quiet that he doesn’t miss it. Well, he doesn’t entirely miss it. His mind strays to thoughts of Harrison Wells far more often than he would like to admit. Something in him feels slightly bereft at the fact that he will have to wait until the university reopens before they meet again.

Cisco doubles his efforts to focus on his work, to discipline his mind. His concentration is not what it once was, but he refuses to give in entirely to the beginnings of what feels like a feverish obsession. The flames of it lick at the depths of his core, and he knows it won’t take much for them to fan into a blaze that will consume him. 

So he performs normality with teeth-gritting determination. He enjoys cups of coffee by the fireside, scribbles notes bent over his desk, tinkers away at the piano. He takes long walks in the evenings, relishing the cold, winter air. The streets that snake closer to the city are streaked with mud and filth but that doesn’t deter Cisco from extending his walks there. His feet seem to want to keep going the deeper he becomes lost in his thoughts. 

He’s passing an alleyway when he hears scuffling. There are grunts and dull thwacks which sound suspiciously like punches. 

“Hey!” Cisco calls, peering into the darkened space between the buildings, breaking into a run. “What are you doing?”

As he gets closer, the shadows take the shape of a couple of young boys attacking a bent-over figure. 

“Stop that!” Cisco yells.

The boys pause, looking up, fists aloft. 

“Just leave ‘im!” Cisco hears one of them say. “Let’s go, Billy. We got what we needed.” They hurry off into the darkness. 

“Are you alright?” Cisco asks, bending over the crumpled figure on the ground. “Good God…” Now that he’s closer, he can see that it’s an old man and Cisco wonders how he was able to take the punches that the boys were delivering. 

The man coughs, spitting blood. 

“Oh God,” Cisco says, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Here.” 

The old man reaches for the handkerchief, but pauses when he catches sight of Cisco’s face. “Not one of you mulattos again.”

Cisco’s outstretched hand is still with surprise. Why is it that they can never even insult him properly?

“No doubt it was one of yours who just attacked me. Is this some kind of ploy? And you come with the pretense of rescuing me and swindle me out of the rest of my money, is that it?” How the man manages to sound so imperious and condescending while he’s lying on the muddy cobblestones is beyond Cisco’s understanding. 

“I -” Cisco shakes his head, choosing to ignore the old man’s ramblings. “Look, you’re hurt. You probably ought to get to a hospital.” He spots the old man’s cane and hat lying a few feet away and grabs them, extending the cane to the old man, thinking it will help him get to his feet. The man takes the cane but waves Cisco away. 

“Just stay away from me.” 

“You’re going to need help standing up,” Cisco says, exasperation tingeing his voice. 

“I don’t need any kind of help from the likes of you,” the old man continues to grumble, his trembling limbs making it hard for him to get up. 

“I’m telling-” 

“Well, if it isn’t Francisco Ramon and his heart of gold.”

Cisco and the old man both turn at the voice. 

It’s him. Cisco’s heart does a little leap which Cisco chooses to ignore. He’s standing there in his long, dark coat, and it takes a surprising amount of control for Cisco to not immediately move to his side. 

“Is this - _gentleman_ \- giving you trouble?” he asks, his eyes on Cisco. 

Cisco is unable to speak. 

The old man sputters. “Gentleman?” He scoffs. “Him? Are you touched in the head, man?”

Harrison Wells turns to look at the man, his face emotionless. His eyes run over the man’s crumpled form. "I wasn't asking you," he says, his tone flat.

“Uh...he needs to get to the hospital,” Cisco finally manages, having found his voice. 

Harrison Wells turns back to Cisco. Something ignites in Cisco’s stomach when their eyes catch. There is a heavy pause before Harrison Wells speaks. 

“Very well, I have a carriage waiting close by.” He comes forward and scoops the old man up in his arms. 

Cisco grabs the man’s hat and cane and follows in silence. 

Harrison Wells makes his way out of the alleyway and to a carriage waiting further down the street. There are no footmen attending to it, only the driver sitting on the riding seat, a hat pulled down low over his face. As soon as he spots their strange group, he jumps down and opens the door to the carriage. 

Harrison Wells deposits the man inside before turning around and taking the cane and hat from Cisco and passing them to the old man. 

He then turns to fix Cisco with a wordless stare. 

“I’ll - I’ll get going, then,” Cisco says, one foot sliding backwards.

“No,” he rasps. “Get in.” 

“Wha-”

Harrison Wells tilts his head at the carriage. “Get in. We’ll take you home after we take him to the hospital.” 

Cisco pauses. Harrison Wells is looking at him with an intensity that makes Cisco’s breath come faster.

“I don’t think it’s a good ide-”

“Don’t argue with me on this.” Though the words are a command, he utters them as if they’re an appeal, the curl of his lips colouring them with a soft caress that Cisco can almost feel on his skin. 

Cisco gives a curt nod and climbs in. 

He takes a seat opposite the old man who has slouched all the way down, eyes almost closed and mumbling to himself. 

Harrison Wells climbs in and shuts the door against the cold wind. He thumps the roof of the carriage, and with a lurch, it starts off down the road. He shifts back in his seat, his coat grazing Cisco’s thigh. His proximity in the confines of the carriage is intoxicating. Cisco looks out the window in a desperate move to try to calm his nerves. 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to conduct himself as if everything is normal, as if the sheer nearness of Harrison Wells isn’t making him want to turn around and burrow into the man’s chest. Cisco squeezes his eyes tightly against the embarrassing thought. 

Harrison Wells doesn’t say a word for the length of their journey to the hospital. Once they reach the destination, he pushes the door open, calling to a couple of orderlies and handing the old man over to their care. 

“Don’t forget these,” he grunts, and hands the cane and hat over as well, before he hauls himself back into the carriage. He takes the newly vacated seat opposite Cisco, which Cisco finds is both a relief and a disappointment. 

“Where to?” he asks, looking at Cisco. 

Once Cisco gives him the address, he calls it out to the driver through the window and then pulls it closed. His gaze lands on Cisco, heavy and contemplative. 

Cisco shifts, realising that this new seating arrangement is in fact worse because he cannot avoid Harrison Wells’ eyes. He feels he ought to say something, if only to break the silence inside the carriage that is morphing into something hot and pressing, but he doesn’t know what. His mind is empty. 

“You couldn’t just leave the man.” His low murmur breaks the silence, and Cisco blinks, pulled back to reality. 

Cisco doesn’t know what to say. 

“He was being rather repulsive to you,” Harrison Wells remarks, his eyes running over Cisco’s face. His jaw tightens. “His behaviour would have absolutely justified your walking away.” 

Cisco feels as if he is kindling surrounded by encroaching flames. And the most frightening thing about it is that he does not mind in the least.

“I - well, he was hurt.” 

Harrison Wells blinks once, heavy and slow. “I fear you will be the end of me, Cisco Ramon.” The words, just louder than a whisper, are like a spell burning a thread between them. Time seems to fall away, and Cisco cannot recall a world outside the carriage. His nickname on the man’s lips is like a whisper-soft kiss, and he marvels at how he can be felled by simple words. 

The other man clears his throat and turns away to look out the window, shifting in his seat. Cisco allows his eyes to travel over the lines of the man’s profile, desperate to drink in all the details he is usually too afraid to look at head on. But no matter how hungrily his eyes take in the man opposite him, he cannot distance himself from the knowledge that he will not be able to keep this moment for good, no more than he can keep the man. The pain of it lances through him and his breath comes short. Cisco turns away, blinking against the stinging in his eyes, and puzzling at the intensity that roils through him.

Before too long, they roll up the drive leading to the modest Ramon homestead. 

Harrison Wells is still peering out the window. “There are no lights,” he remarks, turning to Cisco. “No one home?” 

Cisco shakes his head. “My family is away - they’re visiting a medical specialist for my brother.” He shifts, buttoning up his coat and ducking his head so he doesn’t have to hold Harrison Wells’ narrow-eyed gaze. 

“You’re alone.” It’s not really a question so Cisco chooses not to answer it. He scrambles out of the carriage, eager to escape the pressing tangle of emotions that had been festering in its confines. 

He turns to give his thanks, but Harrison Welles is sliding out of the carriage after him. He lets the door fall shut and slaps the carriage’s side. “I’ll make my way home, Wiggins,” he says to his driver. 

After a tip of his hat the driver cracks the whip, and the carriage rolls off into the darkness. 

Cisco turns to Harrison Wells with an open mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Harrison Wells asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I’m inviting myself over.”

Cisco tries to keep his mouth stern, though it is proving rather difficult with the other man’s eyes twinkling as they are through his glasses. “That’s very presumptuous of you.” 

“It’s one of my few faults, I assure you,” he says with a wink. 

Cisco turns to hide his smile behind his hair as he makes his way up the path to the front door. There is something both comforting and thrilling about having Harrison Wells shadowing his footsteps. 

His body feels like a foreign entity as he fumbles in his pocket for the house key. When he pushes the door open, the house seems to breathe with the expectation of a new visitor. 

Cisco steps inside, turning the dial of the gaslight so that the hall is bathed in a soft glow. 

He turns around to see Harrison Wells standing at his doorstep, watching him with hungry eyes. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Mr. Ramon?” His voice seems like the most dangerous thing in the darkness outside the house. “It is New Year’s Eve, after all.” 

“Please,” Cisco says, licking his lips. “Come in.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as part of "Harrisco New Year's Kisses An Anthology." It will become clear soon where the New Year's Kiss fits in :)


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